


Impossible; Inevitable

by GalifreyanGhost



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4162218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalifreyanGhost/pseuds/GalifreyanGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HLV fix it. Slow burn friends to lovers. Please note that the ending to the chapter one has been changed (added on to!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Impossible

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at an HLV fix-it. It will contain sex and love and angst. It is also my first posting to AOW, my first Sherlock FF, and it is unbeta'd and not Brit pick'd. I welcome encouragement to keep typing, as well as beta offers, Brit pickers, and just random helpful suggestions. OK...enough said!

The events that occurred from the moment Sherlock’s plane turned mid-air, banked, and returned to the tarmac seemed to happen instantaneously. The color blanched from Mary’s face and she stepped slightly away from John who, stoic as always but slow to comprehend the momentousness of the situation, of what had been destined to be the finality of this parting, failed to notice the change in his wife’s demeanor; Mycroft, however, had his sole focus on the women in question, anticipating her reaction. He was prepared to see the gun that appeared in her hand as soon as the door to the plane reopened, but he had miscalculated the swiftness with which a pregnant woman, days away from giving birth, could grasp her husband firmly and plant the barrel of the aforementioned gun against his temple. 

Mycroft had miscalculated once again in thinking that Mary would show her true colors, reveal her true identity, by taking aim at Sherlock as he descended the plane. Perhaps, Mycroft considered for a moment, he should have let his brother and the ever faithful blogger in on his plan. Perhaps he should have learned from his brother’s mistaken need to shield those he cared about from danger that secrets such as these can end badly. But he had no time to ruminate on these questions of sentiment in the face of a Mary whose hatred and anger made her vindictively clever and heartless. Denied of John as her prize and denied of Sherlock’s certain death, she would fulfill her mission and burn the heart of the detective by making him watch as the keeper of his heart fell cold and dead before his eyes. 

As Sherlock stepped to the doorway of the plane, he knew in an instant what John had known watching Sherlock fall to his death from the roof of St. Bart’s. He felt a worse panic and emptiness than he had felt seeing John strapped in Semtex at the pool, because there was no game this time. He did not need to see Mary’s face to know what she had planned, and there was no time to react in any way that could alter the outcome. He watched helpless as John fell weightless to the tarmac, he heard the shot ring out, and his body gave up fighting. The weight of everything – his certain death in Serbia, the lack of sleep and food as he awaited his fate, and the finality of his John gone from him for a third time and no hope to make it right was too much even for Sherlock to bear. As he saw Mary drop to the ground beside John, a hole in the center of her skull, he gave up, allowing his mind and his body to stop, sinking to his knees and letting the weight of it all plunge him forward down the stairs, allowing the blackness to take him, the words “I’m sorry” a whisper on his dry and dying lips. 

 

When Sherlock awoke, not something he had ever wanted to do again, he was first plagued by the realization that perhaps he deserved to live to suffer as John had done upon awakening after Sherlock’s “death” which, although far more temporary that John’s, would have pained the man greatly. Perhaps this was hell, he thought, awakening on Earth devoid of John Watson. 

As he forced himself to take in his surroundings, he found himself on a soft bed, an IV line running into his arm, and a monitor beeping softly and steadily in rhythm with his heartbeats. He wondered for a moment at the impossibility of the situation, for his heart should no longer be capable of beating. It was gone forever. He had seen it fall to the ground on the tarmac with his own eyes. He lay on his side, listening to the monitor, so lost in his own grief and private reflection that he almost failed to notice the weight on the bed less than a foot behind him. H stiffened as awareness came to him by fractions, and the weight shifted slightly, bringing to Sherlock’s dulled senses a scent that was unmistakably John. Impossibly John, yet there was no mistaking. Eliminate all other options…Mycroft, Lestrade, or some other nameless, faceless body wearing John’s cologne….and yet the scent was more than just aftershave or cologne. It was tea and musk and….whatever remains, no matter how improbable….

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and the monitor began racing frantically in time with the speeding of his heart. He was in mid thought when a hand placed itself firmly on Sherlock’s naked shoulder and a voice, soft, low, strained but calm and stoic as always, whispered, “Hey, no thinking. Just sleep, yeah?” Sherlock recoiled flinching from the touch, not because it was unwelcome but because it was unfamiliar. Touch was not something Sherlock experienced often, and John’s touch even less frequently. And this John, the impossible John, was touching him with the impossible touch. It was more than he could process, but he grasped for the one thread of sanity he could capture as it drifted like the strands of a spiderweb in the corners of his mind palace and the moment that his body flinched his mind recalled that John’s touch was John, which made it different. 

Simultaneously “Sorry” could be heard echoed in the darkness from a duet of complimentary voices, and the hand withdrew, the body following, the weight on the bed shifting and leaving. Leaving a gaping hole in its wake, a pressure and heaviness that would be unbearable. 

That wouldn’t do, thought Sherlock, so he voiced the only word he could form, “Stay.” 

And the weight settled back with an answering sigh of “Yeah.”

The bed shifted again as John settled his weight behind Sherlock, and Sherlock’s heart rate slowed once again. He could feel the dueling sensations of sedatives coursing through his body and adrenalin pumping in counterpoint, and he fought the pull of sleep, a thousand questions defying deduction in his weakened state.

How was John alive when he had seen him fall? What of Mary and the baby? Moriarity. How could he be alive? 

Sherlock’s body tensed and trembled as he struggled for the answers, and was met once again with the comforting presence of John’s hand once again on his shoulder, skin on skin sending tingles of electricity coursing through his veins but not eliciting a need to flinch away this time. Interesting. Impossible as it had once seemed, the sensation of John’s touch was calming instead in the steady weight of calloused fingertips on bare flesh.

The steady timbre of John’s voice whispered in the darkened room. “She’s dead. He’s dead. The baby is safe. Alive. I’m safe. Alive. You’re safe. Sleep, yeah?”

And Sherlock closed his eyes, allowing the darkness to claim him, welcoming it this time much differently than before.


	2. Improbable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that chapter one has been updated with an ending that leads into this chapter, so please read that first. Thanks for all of the comments and kudos as I make my debut into this fandom!

IMPROBABLE

 

The second time Sherlock awoke it was to the3 daylight streaming into the room, and to the unmistakable efficiency of John Watson carefully removing the IV from his arm, reaching out to brush sweaty and matted curls from his forehead.

“Hey,” and John was smiling softly at him, helping him to adjust pillows behind his back. Not a hospital, then. Not a traditional hospital bed.

He looked around the room. A dresser, two overstuffed armchairs, a small table between them, windows that let in light filtered through soft, sheer curtains. “Mycroft?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s a safe house.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he struggled to rise quickly, “Moriarity?”

But the hand was there on his shoulder again, settling him back into the pillows. “No. Reporters.”

Sherlock relaxed a fraction as a knock at the door heralded the arrival of food, a tray piled high with tea and biscuits, fruit and jam, carried by a smartly dressed woman. Quiet and efficient, she placed the tray on the table. “She’s doing fine, Dr. Watson.”

“Thank you, Margaret.”

“Will you be needing anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you. I will be down to see her later.”

“Yes, Sir.”

She turned and left as quietly as she had entered. John turned to Sherlock, who regarded him quizzically but for once thought better than to open his mouth to comment on anything. He looked to John, wanting answers, but as improbable as it seemed, he found himself afraid to ask the questions. 

“You have questions.” John’s words were a simple statement of fact, devoid of any clear sense of emotion, so Sherlock simply nodded his assent. “Yes, well,” John cleared his throat, “eat first. Just a little. Then I will tell you everything I know.”

Sherlock acquiesced, feeling uncertain and afraid, but willing to display a rare patience in the face of John’s continued presence in his life. John made him a plate of biscuits with jam and poured him a cup of tea. As John reached to hand Sherlock the tea, Sherlock reached out and closed his long fingers over John’s, stilling their movement. He took the tea, right handed, and placed it carefully on the night stand, never releasing his left hand’s hold on John’s wrist. Then he brought his right hand back to clasp John’s hand firmly in both of his own. He looked John square in the eye and spoke for the first time since his aborted attempt at an apology and his whispered plea for John to stay, “Thank you.”

John looked away, cast his eyes across the room and away from the deductive power of Sherlock’s gaze, “For what?”

“For not being dead. For staying.”

John laughed his self deprecating laugh, the one Sherlock secretly loathed, and pulled away. He sat in one of the chairs and sipped his own tea, watching as Sherlock drank his tea and consumed a biscuit loaded with jam and butter. Long minutes stretched by in silence, silence that Sherlock did not know how to break, when John spoke again.

“I should have told you that.”

“Told me what, John?”

“Told you thank you for not being dead, for coming back to me, for being willing to trade your life for mine.”

Again, John could not look into Sherlock’s eyes as he spoke. The words came halting and Sherlock sensed there was more to them, something in the subtext that he could not yet wrap his mind around, so he filed that detail away for later analysis and responded with the one truth he knew to be without question, “You would have done the same.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock set his empty plate next to the tea on the bedside table and moved to rise from the bed. He was weak and shakier than he had anticipated. John was swift to his feet as he came to Sherlock’s aid, once again with the touch, grounding, stabilizing, but also increasingly more welcome than Sherlock had ever imagined it could be. Touch, John’s touch, would soon require its own room in his mind palace rather than an alcove in the already overflowing John room or space in the dark closet at the end of the hall where all other touches were banished.

Steady on his feet now, John was looking at him expectantly. “He wonders where I want to go,” Sherlock thought, “I should answer.” But words for some reason were not readily available to him so he simply said, “Loo” and John helped him to the door then let him to his privacy.

Inside the cramped water closet, Sherlock assessed his physical self. Paler than usual, thinner, weaker from worry and guilt, or the lack of guilt for his actions against Magnussen, lack of food and nicotine withdrawal had ravished his body. He was dressed in thin pajama bottoms, no top, and suddenly awareness dawned. John had seen the scars, seen the ravishes of his body that he had taken such care to hide. Nothing to be done about it now. 

Posied at the toilet ready to urinate, he felt the remaining soreness, catheter recently removed, by John, no doubt. He relived himself, pulled up the pajamas, splashed water on his face. Returning to the bedroom, he nodded to John to stay seated. He slowly but steadily made his way to the empty chair, grasping the sheet from the bed and wrapping it around himself, effectively shrouding the scars and himself in a protective barrier, and sank into the chair turning to face John expectantly. He was ready for the promised answers to the questions he still could not vocalize.

John cleared his throat knowing that the time had come to fill in the blanks for Sherlock. 

“What do you remember?” John asked.

“Very little. Moriarity, landing, standing in the doorway. Watching Mary shoot you. Watching you fall. Watching Mary fall. There was nothing left. No reason to….” Here he paused, took in an audibly shaking breath. “so it was better in the blackness.”

“Mary did have a gun. Mycroft knew she would. Your brother organized the entire fiasco. Keep John in the dark seems to be the status quo with you Holmes brothers. The snipers, the Moriarity video. The emergency personel all at the ready. All Mycroft.”

Sherlock started to put the pieces together in a complex puzzle. “Mary was the target all along. The Serbian link was under my nose the entire time and I never saw it,” a ghost of the usual sneer crept onto Sherlock’s face and then faded quickly away, “and you could have died.” The last part was spoken softly with awe and Sherlock felt something final and important click into place with that admission.


	3. Imperative part one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for the delay! I am getting back to writing and, of course, life decides to get in the way! Part two will be along later this week! So, without further ado....

The third time Sherlock awoke he woke John who had fallen asleep with his back to Sherlock. Sherlock, floating in a somnolent haze, mouthed at John's shoulder, wrapping his arms gently around his one true friend, and whispering "I'm sorry" in a steady cadence, tear drops mixing with saliva as he worshiped the scar tissue that marked the exit would from the bullet that had ultimately brought them together. He felt John shift slightly in response to the sensation. Sherlock quickly broke off and scooted further away, leaving a space between their bodies."Not good?" he rasped.

"Fine. It's all fine." John's voice was steady in reply, and he relaxed drifting back into the light hold of Sherlock's arms.They lay in silence for several minutes, the only sound steady breaths in the otherwise silent room.

"Asperger's." Sherlock whispered, apropos of nothing, and John took the non sequitur in stride.

"So, not a sociopath then?"

"Hmmm"

And John moved closer, turning in Sherlock's embrace to wrap is own arms around the lanky man. Sherlock stiffened only momentarily before relaxing into the sense of safety, comfort, and something he could not yet define. 

"I knew." John whispered, and Sherlock could not deduce and was afraid to ask what it was that John knew, so he let the silence descend, acknowledging John's comment with a "hmm."

"The scars." John continued, clearing his throat. Sherlock could not see John's face, but could hear the strain in his voice. He could not understand the reason behind John's discomfort. It was a statement, not a question, and therefor did not demand a response from him, and he could not fathom one if a response were required. 

What bothered Sherlock the most was that he could not discern the reason for John's distress. Was it because Sherlock had lied to John? Was it something else that required apologies? Was John disgusted by the scars themselves, hideous crisscrossed lines that mutilated his otherwise alabaster skin, or was he disgusted by the secrets and the lies that the marks stood for? All of these questions raced around in Sherlock's head, competing for his still fractured attention, only to be throttled completely when John voiced a single word phrased as a question, "Serbia?"

"Yes."

John hurled himself from the bed as if fleeing a physical assault, and stood facing away from Sherlock, breathing hard and barely controlled, his voice held a hint of accusation and a balance of pain and anguish. "You were going to go back there."

Sherlock forced himself to remain calm, modulating his voice with extreme effort to fight the rising emotions he still did not understand, "Yes."

"Because of me."

"John."

A tense moment passed in silence thick with the weight of so many unspoken words, then slowly John turned, his voice a match to the steely resolve in his features, "You could never be a sociopath, Sherlock. You were going back there to die because of me. You were tortured there because of ME. You were almost killed by my wife, Sherlock, because of me." John's breathing was becoming ragged again as he struggled to speak the thoughts he had hidden from himself for so long, anger breaching into his voice, "You killed a man, perhaps many men, because of me; and then you almost died again. Yet here you are telling me that YOU are sorry."

Sherlock rose from the bed and crossed to where John stood, cautious, uncertain, but needing to take an action of some sort. "John." The name fell from his lips like a lea for understanding. 

John turned away abruptly. "Don't. I can't even look at you, Sherlock." John took a deep and shuddering breath and Sherlock froze. Was he so broken, scarred, damaged, that John could no longer stand to be his friend. Had he destroyed everything that had ever mattered to him? These thoughts tore at Sherlock's mind and even deeper reached to his very heart which pounded in his chest. His legs nearly gave way when John broke the silence once again, "I don't deserve to look at you. I owe you so much."

Sherlock broke from his mental contusion and forced his body into action, closing the physical chasm between him and John, not knowing how to close the emotional one, "John, please." He stressed the final word, a reminder that Sherlock Holmes never begs, but would do so gladly to return John to him.

Feeling at a loss, Sherlock grasped through his memories to devise a course of action. He recalled in perfect clarity that moment at the end of his "best man" speech, the closest he had ever come to openly declaring what he held in his heart for John, and he recalled the feeling when John had taken him into his embrace. The hug that John had given him that day was imbued with warmth and comfort even as it battled against awkwardness. A decision made, in a a step toward a path that could change everything but was suddenly and clearly the only option, Sherlock placed his hand gently on John's shoulder and turned the smaller man around to face him.

Sherlock gathered John into his arms, into his embrace, and uncharacteristic of either man, both gave in simultaneously to unshed tears. This time, it was John who mouthed a litany of apologies as his tears soaked Sherlock's bare chest.

Sherlock held fast to John as his own tears slowed, "Perhaps," he strove for and almost achieved lightness in his voice, "we should just agree to forgive one another"

The mood slightly lightened; John's response contained a hint of lost laughter. "We could do, yeah." 

John made to pull away from the embrace, but Sherlock closed his arms tighter, brushed his lips across the top of John's head and whispered, "I'd be lost without my blogger."

Sherlock felt John tremble, but not with tears this time, but laughter. Sherlock allowed the giggles erupting against his chest to become contagious, joining in the laughter. As their breath returned to them, Sherlock seized a long overdue moment. He captured John's chin with his nimble fingers, tipped John's head to look into his eyes, and for the first time, captured John's lips with his own.


	4. Imperative Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are moving closer to absolution and to love. Yes, there will be sexy times ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SOOOO sorry for the delay in this chapter. I promise I will stay focused on this story. I have not given it up. I just let life get in the way.

The kiss was gentle, and Sherlock marveled at the strange but wondrous sensations that John’s brought to him. John responded not by pulling away, not by protesting his heretofore stringently held heterosexuality, but by opening his mouth ever so slightly to allow an exchange of breath between two previously lost souls now found at last. For long moments, they stayed there, standing in each other’s arms kissing gently. It was John who broke the kiss, pulling slightly away and placing his hands on Sherlock’s chest gently, Sherlock turned away, cleared his throat and whispered an apology thinking that John had not wanted this.

“Hey, you, look at me.” John waited and when Sherlock did not turn back to him he continued, “None of that now. I was getting a crick in my neck you tall mad git.” The gentle teasing of his words brought Sherlock back to face him expectantly but still clearly hesitant. “Why don’t we move this somewhere with a slightly more level playing field? Like the bed?”

Sherlock stammered nervously and turned an appalling shade of red so quickly that John didn’t know whether to laugh or beg forgiveness for the forwardness of the suggestion. They had shared the bed for the better part of 24 hours, yet it was clear to John that Sherlock was out of his element when it came to the idea of sharing a bed with any hint of sexual intent. John reached up to caress Sherlock’s cheek gently, “Just to kiss, maybe sleep a bit more. We won’t do anything that you don’t want to do. Not now. Not ever.”

Sherlock still seemed to hesitate. The boldness of his move in initiating the first kiss was the extent of his knowledge on how to proceed in this situation. He knows, in theory, of course, but not practice. And he still didn’t know what any of this meant nor why this overwhelming feeling kept washing over him. There was still something just on the edge of his awareness that he could not define, could not put a name to. It was something about John and about himself and about them. He needed to grasp it before it disappeared. 

“Hey, come back, okay?” John’s voice brought Sherlock’s attention back to the present moment. “I don’t need you going anywhere and getting lost inside that mind palace of yours right now. Sit.”

John nudged Sherlock to sit on the edge of the bed, and then dropped to his knees in front of the clearly frightened younger man. Gone was all pretense; gone was all fear or hesitation. John Watson was a man of action, a man of strength, a caregiver, a friend, and in this moment a man on the precipice of becoming a lover. Not a sexual partner, but a lover, and there were words that needed to be said before they became lost in a whirlwind of action.

“I need you to listen to me,” John started gently, placing his open palms on Sherlock’s knees. “This moment between us, I don’t regret it. I welcome it. I welcome it and so much more, but only as much as you want to give to me. We can curl back under the covers and just hold one another. We can keep on kissing. I quite liked the kissing. Did you?”  
John waited for a moment, looking expectantly into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock swallowed once and nodded his ascent. “Good, so we could keep on kissing. And if that’s all you want to do today, then that’s all we do. If that’s all you ever want to do, that’s all we will ever do. Because there is something I need to say to you. This,” and here John touched his hand first to his own hard and then to Sherlock’s, leaning up into Sherlock’s space to reach for him, “This between us. It’s real to me. It has been for a long time. I just didn’t allow myself to act on it.”

John took a breath and looked straight into Sherlock’s eyes, taking both of Sherlock’s hands and clasping them in his own. From his position kneeling at Sherlock’s feet, he looked like a man in penitence for his sins, and perhaps in a way he was. But this was his moment of absolution, his moment of perfect truth. “William Scott Sherlock Holmes, I love you. I love you with every atom and every fiber of my being. I love you so much that even death couldn’t shake it. Always have. Always will.” 

John watched Sherlock’s eyes waiting for a reaction. At first, his face seemed to turn to stone, the mask in pace. Then his eyes started moving rapidly, as if processing a large amount of data. He did not move or speak for what to John felt like an eternity, but to Sherlock it was only a moment. But it was a moment of perfect clarity.

When Sherlock did move it was to leap from the bed brushing past John and whirling about with frenetic energy clasping his hands together and beaming. John sat back on his haunches, unsure of how to react. This was not what he had expected, but then this was Sherlock. Was anything to be expected?

“Brilliant, John! You are brilliant.” Sherlock finally spoke. John cocked his head and delivered his patented look of confusion in Sherlock’s direction. “That was the missing piece. The part I couldn’t deduce.”

“Sherlock, you’re going to have to give me a little more detail here.”

Sherlock reached down and hauled John bodily to his feet, deposited him on the bed with a strength surprising from a man who still had not recovered from the toll of the months and years of bodily neglect and abuse. Then he threw himself to his knees, taking up a position identical to the one that John had used to make his declaration. Grasping John’s hand in his, he looked into John’s eyes. “John Hamish Watson, you are brilliant because you are my conductor of light, and you have led me to understand what this feeling is within me. This strange and unsettling something heretofore indefinable. Love, John. I love you.”

The naked honesty and the truth between them hung in the air for a moment before John pulled Sherlock to the bed beside him. He took him into his arms and kissed him. Gently at first, then deeper. The snaked their arms around one another and kissed as the morning turned to afternoon. Time was irrelevant. All that mattered were lips and then eventually tongues exploring, tasting, touching. Kisses became heated and then gentled. Touches remained chaste, above the waistline. John explored the map of scars on Sherlock’s back, tracing each with his fingertips and punctuating every line with a kiss to Sherlock’s lips and a whispered, I love you.”

Sherlock in this turn placed kisses to the scar on John’s shoulder, catalogued it with his tongue. He licked a spot on John’s neck, tasting him, and John gasped. Sherlock moved to pull away and John held him closer. “Brilliant. You are brilliant, amazing, fantastic, and you are all mine.”

Sherlock basked in the praise, praise that came so little to him. He took in John’s words and for once did not doubt their truth. “I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered into the crook of John’s neck.

“I know, love. But I don’t think there are any rules. So you’re doing just fine.” He pulled Sherlock in to him, turning the younger man so that he could spoon him against his chest. With a Herculean will, John bade his erection, which had been growing rapidly throughout their activities, to subside as he maneuvered Sherlock to a position where their bodies were fully connected. Sherlock’s body was longer, making the feasibility of full contact impossible. Realizing this, Sherlock shifted, turned toward John and bade the smaller man to roll over. He then wrapped himself fully around John. 

Both men were shirtless with nothing but pajamas between them, and John could not help but notice the hardness of Sherlock’s erection as it came into contact with his buttocks. Nor could he help the whispered “God, yes” that slipped from his lips in response to Sherlock’s shocked gasp. He took Sherlock’s hand that was resting on his waist and slid it lower so that Sherlock could feel the matching hardness of John’s penis. Sherlock brushed John gently through the cotton of his pajamas and felt John’s member twitch to seek more friction. Sherlock’s cock involuntarily jerked in response, finding a space in the cleft of John’s buttocks. “OH, God yes,” John’s vocabulary finding itself significantly reduced. “I think we will be just fine, love. Just fine.”

Sherlock’s response was to mouth a spot on John’s shoulder, sucking it. Like a baby with a pacifier and his favorite stuffed hedgehog, Sherlock found himself drifting once again on the edges of sleep. “Thank you,” he whispered in John’s ear. “Thank you for loving me.”


	5. Inquisitive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby steps are taken, and the definition of words is called into question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, I did it. The content of this work is finally approaching its E rating. Holding my breath in anticipation and apologizing profusely for the SLOW updates. Comments and constructive criticism fuel me. The next chapter gets more plot driven, but these two are finding their way together. By the way, don't own them, just love them an awful lot!

The next time Sherlock woke, having drifted to sleep once again with the taste of John’s skin on his lips, he found himself wrapped tightly around his blogger. Sherlock felt a sense of safety and security, a sense of belonging he had never known existed. This was something he had never before experienced, always believing himself to be unsuited for relationships of a sensual nature. He found that, far from being overwhelmed in this instance, his mind was remarkably quiet, so he began to catalogue, almost casual, the shape and feel of John’s body against his. 

The difference in their heights meant that John fit within his embrace like a Chinese nesting doll, Sherlock’s mouth was right at the point of John’s left shoulder which still bore traces of saliva remnants of open mouthed kisses. This part of John was firmly committed to memory, but Sherlock could also feel the naked and warm skin of John’s back pressed against his equally bare chest, and this was a sensation that begged to be stored forever.

John’s skin was soft over taut musculature and sturdy bone. But what truly captured the detective’s thoughts was the press of John’s body against his chest and the way that his own nipples, dusky against alabaster flesh, strained and hardened seeking contact. All parts of his body, it seemed, were drawn to John like a sailor to a siren’s call.

Their hips, too, had slotted together perfectly. John’s pajama clad buttocks nestled into Sherlock’s silk encased groin. Sherlock’s erection had faded, in his sleep or in his distraction, but he felt his cock twitch slightly as he cataloged his proximity to John in such an intimate area. Sherlock had experienced arousal in his lifetime, but he had always been able to will it away, to file that part of himself in a locked room where it would not interfere with the workings of his transport, but it would seem that John Watson, unassuming man that he was, had crept in like a thief and broken the locks to set Sherlock’s desire for the carnal aspects of “friendship” free. 

Continuing his examination further, Sherlock noted that in sleep their legs had become intertwined – cotton with silk and muscular calves, John’s, which seemed to encase Sherlock in an embrace. Rather than feeling confined by this entrapment, something that Sherlock could not have been faulted for fleeing from after his time in Serbia, he instead felt security and a sense of being loved. He chided himself for that word and the sentiment that went with it, but it was the only accurate word to explain and contextualize the depth of feeling that he had for the man sleeping soundly in his arms. Perhaps, he thought, this was what love really was, a deep desire to shelter and protect and intertwine oneself fully with another being. What he had thought was love, the chemical defect he had so sought to avoid for the harm he had seen it cause, was really a different emotion falsely named as love but driven by a need to control and to benefit from an unhealthy symbiosis that often ended in destruction. That was the answer, he decided. The emotion was not wrong; the name for it was. He would have to think of another word.

Jostling himself back to present time and setting up the exploration of linguistic alternatives to love as a background search inside his mind. Sherlock continued to analyze the points of contact between himself and his…lover….another word that needed to be examined. But that line of thinking quickly derailed as he realized the final point of contact was, in fact, the site at which his left hand had been placed by John the night before, just moments prior to their both succumbing to sleep. That hand still rested gently on John’s cock which, to Sherlock’s surprise, was still erect and straining against the cotton, tenting the front of John’s pajamas, and filling Sherlock’s palm as if it belonged there for eternity. John’s body was an unabashed display of want, and this knowledge made Sherlock’s own cock pulse to life. A lack of practical knowledge, it seemed, did not supersede instinct. 

Tentatively, moving for the first time since waking, Sherlock touched John’s erection lightly through the fabric, stroking softly up and down the hardened length. Of their own accord, John’s hips bucked into the sensation causing John to awaken just in time to grab Sherlock’s hand as the detective, startled by John’s response, attempted to bolt away. 

“Stay” John pleaded, gently pulling Sherlock’s hand back to rest against his cock. “just let whatever happens, happen, yeah?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and relaxed against John again, resuming his gentle stroking at John’s prompting. 

“It’s good, Sherlock. Touch is good.”

“So is kissing,”Sherlock blushed as he said that, burying his face into John’s shoulder, but John was undeterred.

“Yeah, it is.” He said as he turned to face Sherlock, both men locking eyes for a moment, before John closed the distance to capture Sherlock’s lips with his own. He brought the detective closer to him, and this time the sensations were even better. Chest to chest, their nipples brushed delightfully against each other, and John’s tongue began to do a probing sort of dance in and out of Sherlock’s mouth. He tasted of tea and the motions he was making with his tongue seemed to trigger something within Sherlock. His hips stuttered involuntarily, bringing his erection into contact with John’s and then his body seized, filled with blinding heat and a wave of crushing pleasure.

Sherlock gasped, nearing panic, when he felt John’s arms wrap around him, pulling him impossibly closer as his pleasure peaked, crested, and exploded from a single point in his body gushing out a wash of liquid that filled his silk pajamas with hot fluid. Orgasm, his brain supplied. Not the first in his life, but the first in a long time. Surprise warred with embarrassment, but neither emotion was given time to take shape as John crushed their lips together, coaxing aftershocks from Sherlock’s body.

“It’s okay, love.” John’s voice was calm, centering. “It’s good, yeah?”

“Sorr…”

Sherlock began but John shushed him.  
“Yes….good.”

Sherlock pulled away lightly, glancing down at the stain in his pajamas and reaching out to hesitantly touch it.

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly.

“Yes?” His voice carried a hint of awe and a great deal of curiosity.

“Do you ever…pleasure yourself?”

“No.” Sherlock responded.

“Would you like to see it happen?” John asked, taking Sherlock’s hand once again and placing it on his own still swollen member.

“Yes.”

John rolled onto his back, pushing the covers down. He started to grip the waistband of his own pajamas, then hesitated. “Would you? Please?” John asked, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s. The detective’s eyes changed from insecurity and hesitation to curiosity and eagerness.

Sherlock gently but firmly gripped the fabric of John’s bottoms and drew them away and down, leaving his blogger in nothing but a pair of dark pants. Sherlock could see the shape of John’s cock through the fabric, and he noted a small wet spot near the tip. He touched the spot, causing John to shudder, but the man remained as still nas possible, inviting and allowing the exploration. 

Sherlock trace the fluid with his finger, then brought the finger to his own face, smelling and then tasting the moisture. 

“God, Sherlock.” John suppressed an urge to claim, to hurry the moment. “You are beautiful, love. Exquisite. Go on.”

Sherlock allowed the words to wash over him, praise fueling his courage in the face of insecurity. Beautiful and Exquisite took place of Freak for a moment, and Sherlock, emboldened, carefully removed John’s pants. He looked for a moment at the straining and dark piece of flesh before him, and realized that he was the one who had caused this reaction in John. But he did not know what to do with it. He had seen porn, but nothing he had seen seemed to match the beauty of the sight before him.

John took Sherlock’s hand and wrapped it around his erection, and Sherlock catalogued the velvety feel if the muscle as John guided him to a rhythm. John rocked his hips gently, not wanting to startle Sherlock, but seeking his own release quietly. It did not take long. Four gentle thrusts and he was coming, ribbons of milky fluid dropping down to coat Sherlock’s hand and his own. And Sherlock watched, enraptured. 

Stilling, John reached for the covers to wipe away the mess, but Sherlock was quick to capture a small drop of it and put it to his own lips. He saw the widening of John’s eyes at his action. “Not good?” he questioned.

“No, “John was quick to respond. “Very, very good.” He captured Sherlock’s lips in another kiss, s time, chaste this time but filled with sentiment.

“What now?” Sherlock asked, uncertain of what any of this would now mean.

“Now,” came the ever practical voice of Captain John Watson, we get out of this bed, get cleaned up, put on clean clothes, not pajamas, and we leave this room. We’ve been languishing here long enough, don’t you think?”

The thought of leaving the room frightened Sherlock. What would this mean for them? Was this all going to end as soon as they left the security of this space? 

John saw the beginning of panic on Sherlock’s features, so he gently cupped the detective’s chin and looked him in the eye, “Nothing changes, love. At least not in a bad way. I promise.”

Sherlock nodded. “What are we going to do when we leave this room?”

John smiled. “We are going downstairs.” His confidence seemed to falter for a moment, but he maintained a steady contact with Sherlock’s eyes. “There’s someone I would like you to meet.”


	6. Interconnected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions are made in the silent moments as two become three and three become one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, my apologies for the extended hiatus. I WILL be finishing this work, but I got hit by a bad case of writer's block and then I lost my outline for this story. It's back on track now! As always, comments, questions, and suggestions are welcome!

There are many kinds of awakenings, and the next time Sherlock awoke it was not from the depths of unconsciousness born of pain and exhaustion, not from the depths of sleep, but from an unconsciousness that was born from decades spent denying the very idea of sentiment, the very possibility of love. Standing in the doorway to a room that used to be a “maid’s room” but was now appropriated for a fully equipped nursery, watching Margaret place a swaddled bundle gently into John Watson’s arms, Sherlock awoke fully and felt something so powerful fill him, an emotion he could only accept as pure and unadulterated love. 

“She’s just been fed, Dr Watson. She’ll need changing soon.” Margaret hesitated, but John dismissed the woman with a silent nod of thanks and brought the bundle closer to where Sherlock stood, approaching slowly until he was standing just in front of Sherlock, within his reach. “She doesn’t have a name yet, or I would introduce you properly.” John hesitated. “I wasn’t sure yet what I was going to do…” 

Sherlock eyed the child, watching as her eyes fixed first on John but then shifted to look at him. It was impossible that a child merely days old could have intellect, wisdom, yet Sherlock saw something there, a spark of intelligence and awareness that reminded him of John. He saw nothing of Mary, only a reflection of the man he was now more than ever aware that he loved with every fiber of his being. Sherlock reached out to touch the infant, stroking her cheek with a single long and elegant finger. The child responded with a cooing noise, startling Sherlock momentarily. He drew his hand back and looked from the baby to her father, “she has your eyes, John.” Sherlock’s voice was awed. 

“Would you like to hold her?” 

Sherlock hesitated, then accepted the baby, allowing John to place her in a safe position. They stood there for several minutes, Sherlock regarding the child, John regarding Sherlock, and in the quiet that was that moment unspoken decisions were made, and a future was mapped out.

“She will need a nursery.” Sherlock’s voice was matter of fact, and anyone who was less familiar with the man than John Watson was would have missed the slight catch in Sherlock’s voice, but John didn’t miss it at all. 

Suddenly all of the emotion, all of the strain of the last 48 hours came crashing down over John Watson in a wave, but rather than breaking him, its flood tides washed him clean and he looked to Sherlock, cradling the child in his arms, accepting her into their lives without question, and this was what love was, this was what life was meant to be. No matter that the road had been long and often unnecessarily convoluted, no matter that there were scars both physical and emotional that still needed to be tended, and no matter that there were still, without doubt, practical hurdles much more complicated than the installation of a nursery to attend to. Everything, John knew, would somehow now be made right.

John reached out to caress the baby’s face, then allowed his touch to drift to Sherlock’s face, gently encouraging the man to look at him. Eyes locked, with a baby between them that from this moment on would be “theirs”, John allowed the tears to fall. “God, I love you.” John’s voice was thick with emotion but his smile was radiant, and Sherlock leaned in to whisper “and I, you, always” and to capture John’s lips in a kiss that was gentle but spoke volumes. 

A fast learner, Sherlock allowed his lips to part, giving John’s tongue access. He tasted John, teat and mint toothpaste, nibbled his blogger’s lower lip delighting in the quivering he could feel beneath his touch. He also tasted salt, and felt moisture that slid down not only John’s cheeks but also, he discovered, from his own. When he had started to let the tears flow he did not know, but they did not alarm him. Nothing about this moment, much to his surprise, was alarming. It was comfort, belonging, safety, surety, and promise all entwined in two lives merging and embracing a third life between them. It was the true essence of his late vow, finding its actual mission and solidifying itself in a trinity of lives.

The moment, however cathartic and tender and long overdue, was broken all too soon by a cry that became a shrill wail, and Sherlock became suddenly aware of a rather disgusting aroma emanating from the now squirming bundle in his arms. Sherlock was about to call out for that woman, what was her name? Did he know it? Had he deleted it? - when John quickly collected the child, leaving Sherlock slightly at a loss as to what to do as John made short work of changing the baby and settling her back into her crib. Once snug under her covers, she slept almost instantly.

Sherlock stood still, watching, but his face was a myriad of thoughts that John could almost hear they were so loud in the silence of the nursery. “You have questions” John stated decisively.

“Deductions.”

“Of course. Let’s take this conversation elsewhere, shall we?”

John took Sherlock by the hand, drew him close for another kiss, this one filled with promises of more to come. “Bedroom?” 

John laughed softly. “First you are going to eat something. An actual meal. Then we talk. And once all of your questions are answered, I have plans for you my beautiful man.”

Sherlock shuddered involuntarily at the thought. “My empirical knowledge in this area is somewhat lacking, John.”

“And what do we do when we lack verifiable evidence?” John’s voice matched the smile that illuminated his features.

“It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.” Sherlock took hold of John’s shoulders drawing the man closer to look into his eyes as he spoke.

“Use a heuristic process to discover if the reality matches the theory, then, I should think.” John traced a finger down the side of Sherlock’s face, following the kind of his cheekbone gently. 

Sherlock felt himself becoming aroused by the proximity of John and the promise of what was to come, “There’s nothing like first hand evidence.”

John chucked. Flirting with Sherlock was intellectual foreplay, and it was all to easy to carry on, forgetting that there were important matters to attend to, but the door down the hall opened and Sherlock’s attention was instantly diverted, “Mycroft is here. And he’s brought Thai food.”

John gently disentangled himself from Sherlock, “Keep those thoughts in that brilliant brain of yours. Bookmark them or something. And remember that I love you.”


	7. Integral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future is just a heartbeat away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are following this story, I apologize in advance! I got stuck! This chapter offers a few answers to questions and is a transition to the conclusion which I promise I WILL write. This is my first foray into this fandom, and I sort of lost the plot along the way. It's back on track now!

Dinner with Mycroft was less painful than Sherlock had anticipated and afforded him the chance to regain some of his lost confidence by displaying his deductive prowess. He correctly deduced that the plan, Mycroft’s idea, had been hatched during his time in prison. Mycroft had determined that Mary was, in fact, a member of Moriarty’s network. Mary was the Serbian connection – the threat Sherlock’s mission was meant to uncover and the adversary intended to defeat him. She had put her plan in motion, upon Sherlock’s return from Serbia, to take the detective down using his loyalty and love for John while simultaneously eliminating Magnussen as a potential threat to her future, a future which would have included playing the doting wife and mother while masterminding a resurgence of Moriarity’s empire under her control.

The plan would have succeeded with Sherlock fully dead and gone, but Mycroft knew that Mary’s hand would be forced if she thought that Moriarity was still alive. Mycroft had told John in advance of the nature of the plan – his part being to ensure that Mary’s weapon was unloaded – a feat he had accomplished with alacrity. John had also maintained the affect of the unaware blogger keeping the fiction of his stoic farewell and his fealty to Mary. The convincing nature of John’s performance and the fact that Sherlock had been the one kept in the dark this time were both surprising to the detective, and he felt a momentary surge of pride in his blogger coupled with a deep regret that he had not trusted John with the truth of his own fall, but John had glimpsed the flurry of emotions crossing Sherlock’s face and had reached gently across the table to touch Sherlock’s cheek, turning him so that their eyes connected. The look that Sherlock saw there told him to keep the past in the past, to trust in the possibility of the future.

The risky part of the plan had been the baby. Mycroft’s medical team was standing by, and an emergency c-section had removed the child even as Mary breathed her last breath. John had rushed to Sherlock’s side, his collapse having been the only variable Mycroft had not anticipated. Both Sherlock and the baby had been rushed to Mycroft’s safe house. The rest of the story picked up when Sherlock awoke in John’s arms. Now, all that remained were the signing of official documents – the annulment of John’s marriage to a woman who never existed, the overturning of Sherlock’s conviction in light of the fact that the Serbian connection was dispatched, and the official record of the birth of one daughter to John Watson. 

There were two empty spaces on the birth certificate. In one, John was to fill in the child’s name. In the other, the name of the child’s mother was conspicuously absent. Sherlock took a pen and quickly signed his own freedom, then twirled Pad Thai absently as John swiftly signed the annulment but then hovered over the birth records. He shielded the page from Sherlock’s sight for a moment as he scrawled on the page, then passed the paper to Mycroft, leaving it purposefully where Sherlock could see what was written there. In the line for the baby’s name was Willow Watson Holmes. On the line for “mother” he had carefully printed William Scott Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock fought the tears that started to form, continuing to worry the Pad Thai mercilessly. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “This is…a most unusual request, Dr Watson.”

“And yet, I have no doubts that you will make it a reality.” John’s tone brooked no argument.

“Of course, Dr. Watson. Sherlock…”

“We will return to Baker Street. We will need a nursery. John’s old room will suffice. And 221C will need to be procured for the nanny.” Sherlock caught a cautionary look in John’s eyes “Margaret and Willow will be arriving before us. Dr. Watson will be overseeing my recovery for a few more days here, and then I think a sojourn somewhere quaint and quiet would be good for my health.”

“Speaking of which, if we are through here, we should thank your brother for the meal and put you to bed. Doctor’s order, yeah?”

Mycroft became uncomfortable and collected the documents, rising umbrella in hand. “Anthea will see to the arrangements. If there are further services that you require, you know how to reach me. I think a small ceremony upon your return. Mummy and Father will want to attend.”

Sherlock groaned dramatically and John walked Mycroft to the door.

“We wouldn’t think of not having them there, Mycroft. Give us some time. We will certainly let you know when we are ready to proceed.”

“Take care of him, John.” 

“Always.” Mycroft took his leave, and John returned to the dining room to see Sherlock standing by the window, looking out into the darkness. 

“Okay?” John slipped in behind him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist. 

“I don’t know.” Sherlock chuckled his response, and John could hear the tears threatening deep in the detective’s throat.

“No one has ever loved you, have they?”

“No.”

“William Scott Sherlock Holmes, from this day forward you will always be loved.” John breathed into Sherlock’s back, holding him as the tears turned to great racking sobs. 

“John…”

“Yeah, love?”

Sherlock swiped the tears from his eyes and turned to face John. “Show me?”

John reached up to bring Sherlock’s lips to his, capturing him in a kiss. “With pleasure.”


	8. Inevitable Part ONE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a visit with Mycroft, and truths uncovered, John makes good on his promise to Sherlock - to show him the depth of his love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so it has been OVER a year since I worked on this piece, and I have no excuses other than a lack of confidence and a lack of inspiration. However, after reading a few works recently and going back and rereading this, I decided i would finish it. "Inevitable" will span several chapters (mostly because I am out of I words and I want to get them there, but also because this is a SUPER slow seduction. We get a little closer in this chapter! Comments are MORE THAN welcome. I am also tying to figure out TUMBLER (I am on there as Galifreyan Ghost as well) and would love feedback. If I get back in the swing of this, I may even take prompt requests! Thank you all, dear readers, for giving this work a chance. My promise to you is that I WILL be adding to it regularly, and they will get their HAPPY ENDING (pun intended)
> 
> On with the show!

John led Sherlock to a different room this time, not the room he had convalesced in for the last several days. For all Sherlock knew of Mycroft’s vast empire, he had never been in this house, a house John seemed to know well. How much had he wandered while Sherlock slept, he wondered, for every time he had awakened, John had been there. Like all of Mycroft’s bolt holes, the house was richly furnished, a different world from Sherlock’s hiding places in the seedier parts of London. How dissimilar the two brothers were, yet how intertwined at the same time. 

Sherlock’s mental wanderings were brought to an abrupt halt when John gently nudged Sherlock into what was evidently the home’s master suite. The room boasted a king sized bed, piled plush with pillows and a thick duvet in deep hues of chocolate and blood red. Sherlock stilled when he saw it, suddenly all too aware of the magnitude of what was about to happen, but instead of pushing his soon to be lover in the direction of the bed, John guided him toward a large attached bath.  
“John?” Sherlock questioned, the set of his body gone rigid in fearful anticipation.

Not responding, John left Sherlock frozen in the doorway, looking all too much like a proverbial deer caught in the headlights, as he moved to turn on the lights, bathing the room in a soft amber glow that highlighted the cerise tones of the bedclothes. John then turned back to Sherlock, clasping his hand gently and lacing their fingers together. He drew the taller man tenderly into the lavatory.

“As promised,” John stated calmly, leaning up to capture Sherlock’s lips in a chaste kiss, “I am going to show you how much I love you.” John trailed a finger down Sherlock’s prominent cheekbone. “I’ve never been good with words.”

Sherlock unfroze momentarily, long enough to place a tentative hand om John’s hip, steadying himself. John, for his part, slowly traced his finger down the length of Sherlock’s face, gently describing a path down Sherlock’s shoulders, leaving the man shuddering at the electricity that filled each sensation. He ended his exploration by clasping the taller man’s hands and pulling him in for yet another kiss, this one still just on the side of chaste but filled with promises. He tasted Sherlock with his tongue, and Sherlock explored John’s mouth in return, relaxing slowly into the new sensations and absorbing the depth of emotion pouring off of John and into him. He filed each touch, each taste, for later cataloguing, far too lost in the feelings John evoked to properly examine them.

As Sherlock drew John closer, both hands now clasping his soldier’s hips, their bodies connected and Sherlock could feel the tented hardness pressing into him from John’s erection. Sherlock cursed his own hesitance and fear as he felt his brain shudder into panic mode at the touch, and his body became instantly taut, as if ready to flee, once again terrified of what was about to happen. Semi-clothed involuntary frotting and a hand job had been fantastic; he remembered the overwhelming feeling of release its exercise had provoked. He recalled the excitement he had felt before dinner at the prospect of gathering more data, but faced with the evidence of John’s desire, he found himself drowning in helpless fear. Rather than growing hard in response, his body, his transport, betrayed him, closing in on itself in protection against potential hostile invasion. 

Sherlock began to panic in earnest. He would never be able to be what John wanted, to give him what he wanted. He was broken and inept and absolutely terrified. He could not take in air. Breathing was, perhaps, not as boring as he had thought to believe, and his lungs felt like lead as he attempted to gather much-needed oxygen.

Brilliant John, sensing the change in Sherlock’s demeanor, clasped both of the detective’s hands in his own. He backed away only an inch, taking their groins out of contact and giving himself space to look Sherlock directly in his multicolored and clearly overwhelmed eyes. 

“Stop!” John ordered, but softly, dropping the timber of his voice to something akin to the way a father might soothe his frightened child, ”I’m not going to hurt you, Sherlock. I’m not even going to fuck you.”

Sherlock tensed again at the use of profanity, jarred by it, but fully aware now of what his doctor was saying. John continued, looking straight into Sherlock’s open and wondrous eyes, “I’m going to make love to you.”


	9. Inevitable PART TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are progressing!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting closer to the "happy ending" I promised! This chapter was a challenge and I am not really happy with it but I wanted to get through it and on to the final chapter. 
> 
> As always not beta'd or Brit-picked. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“I’m going to make love to you.” Those words caught in Sherlock’s mind, rattled about as he strove to make meaning of them. Sex was unknown to him in any practical sense, but he had theoretical knowledge of it. Making love, love, was something entirely different, alien, foreign, yet not altogether unwelcome.  
Sherlock’s brain struggled to come back on line. “in the bath?” he queried incredulously.

John chuckled and placed another soft kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “The bath comes first, and while my body wants you,” he took their clasped hands and placed the both directly over the erection that was currently straining the denim of his jeans, taking care not to thrust into the pressure lest he frighten Sherlock once again, but giving in to a soft moan of satisfaction at the touch, “and that is not going to change any time soon, “he continued., “that is not what this is about at all.”  
“What if I can’t” Sherlock started, but john would not let him finish the words or the thought, shutting the detective up with a kiss that veered slightly off rom chaste, open mouthed and hungry, but with no tangling of tongues. 

“Prepare to be worshipped, my love. I want to cherish you; I want to show you all of the things I can’t put into words; I want you to see everything I should have been showing you these last five years.”

John left Sherlock frozen in place, drifting into his mind palace and striving to make sense of everything John has said to him. Loved. Worshipped. Cherished. John bent to place the stopper in the oversized tub – there was clearly room for two adults to share that space. Sherlock could not help but notice the tight swell of John’s ass in his jeans, the firmness of it, supported by short but powerful legs. 

John started the water, taking care to test the temperature – warm and comfortable. He tipped a generous amount of exotically scented and, no doubt, ridiculously over-priced bath salts into the swirling eddies, and Sherlock watched him, entranced.

John stood and turned to face HIS detective, he could call him that now, at least in his own mind, as the water filled. He took in the sight before him. Sherlock had chosen his signature purple shirt, the one that made his eyes blaze even more ferociously than usual and that clung to his body like a second skin, and dark, no doubt bespoke, trousers. John loved seeing him in this particular garb. The richness of the fabric stood in stark contrast with the pale ivory of his skin. ”Beautiful,” he whispered. John took his hands and placed them cautiously at the uppermost button. He locked eyes with Sherlock, forging a connection and seeking permission at the same time, but the words still needed to be uttered. John may have been in charge of the situation, but he needed to know that Sherlock was following him willingly. “May I, my love?”

Sherlock simply nodded, not trusting his voice enough to attempt to form the words, and he hoped that this would be enough for John. The doctor acquiesced, and began slowly the process of unbuttoning the garment to reveal the treasure beneath.

Although he was willing at the start, Sherlock felt himself begin to tremble as John undressed him. His transport had always been unimportant, save for the fact that it served to get him where he needed to go, to illicit responses he needed from others, and to protect the vastness of his most valued possession (John was not, and never would be a possession to Sherlock), his mind. He kept himself meticulously groomed, more out of sheer force of habit ingrained in him since childhood than out of any concern for what others thought of him. He was the freak to them all, all of them except, for reasons which remained unclear, John Watson. Now, John’s thoughts and opinions were all that he could think of. That and the myriad of scars that covered him from his torso to his toes.

Suddenly, he could not bear to let John see him this way. He was flawed, damaged. He grasped his shirt tightly to himself and turned to face away from John. He could not flee, but he could not stay. He was trapped, cowering like a child in the corner of an increasingly steamy, exquisitely scented bathroom, and the only word he could utter was a choked “No.”

John had apparently at some point in Sherlock’s absence and John’s own subsequent disaster of a marriage become adept at reading minds. Perhaps it was just Sherlock’s mind. Perhaps he always could read Sherlock’s mind because John, brilliant, amazing, wonderful John, was wholly undeterred by Sherlock’s flight.  
“William Scott Sherlock Holmes,” John began, his voice even and calming, “scars are proof that we have lived, that we still live. Your scars are proof that you lived for me, Sherlock, and that makes them beautiful.”

Once again Sherlock felt the tears begin to well in his eyes; he found that he was unable to hold them back this time, and more surprisingly he discovered that he had no desire to prevent his emotions from coming to the surface. So great was his love for John that he could no longer deny the man any part of himself. 

Taking a leap that was more frightening than the plunge from the roof of St. Barts, Sherlock loosened his grip on the fabric at his chest and still turned away from john he dropped the shirt off of his shoulders, letting it pool to the floor, and fully exposing the mutilated map of scars across the landscape of his back. 

“I see the story of our lives on your skin, “John breathed, “a map of all you gave for me, only to return to me. I took you for granted then. I did not know. You are beautiful.”  
The tears were streaming down Sherlock’s cheeks unchecked, and he let them fall as he unbuttoned his trousers, let them fall to the floor. He stripped off his shoes and socks, removed his pants, and stepped out from them all to stand naked before John. He stood silent for a moment, listening to John’s breath as he gazed on Sherlock, listening to John sigh and turn the water off. Listening to the sigh of satisfaction when Sherlock finally turned to face him.

“Come, love.” John held his hand out to Sherlock, gently pulling him toward the tub. John’s gaze remained fixed on Sherlock’s eyes as he helped the detective into the water, helped him to seat himself within its sheltering warmth.

Once settled, John placed a kiss on Sherlock’s lips and stripped as well. He allowed Sherlock to simply enjoy the water, and the view, as he folded their clothes, gathered thick towels and set them by the basin, then gathered a sponge, soap, shampoo, and conditioner. 

He knelt naked by the tub, dipping the sponge into the water, slathering it with soap and bent into the tub to begin to clean the detective, to eradicate the emotional as well as physical filth from the days, weeks, months, and years prior.

Sherlock’s position in the water did not afford him the ability to see much of John’s body, but he had already taken a mental picture as John had disrobed, so he closed his eyes and set to storing the image in his mind palace, but he was brought up short in this task by the feel of john’s hands on his naked skin, gently washing his arms and neck and chest, stopping just short of his erection that was beginning to swell.

Embarrassed, Sherlock quickly moved to place his hands over the offending appendage, but John caught his wrists and placed them gently off to the side, floating on the water. “Let it happen, Sherlock. Enjoy this. It’s fine. It’s good. It’s….brilliant.”

A quick glance at John’s face and the pleased smile that he bore told Sherlock that, yes, this was all good, better than good, and he at once fully relaxed into the sensations, his body gently arching into John’s ministrations like a pleased cat.

“Dip your head for me, love. I want to wash your hair.”

Sherlock did as requested, dunking under the water and coming up soaked, his curls dripping water. John couldn’t resist the fond chuckle that burst forth from his lips and he bent to kiss Sherlock deeply, testing the younger man’s lips with his tongue. Sherlock opened willingly and the kiss deepened. John soon felt his own erection filling and his position on the ground began to feel uncomfortable. He shifted away from the kiss. “Hold that thought a moment,” he said, reaching for the bottle of shampoo.  
John poured a generous amount of shampoo into his hands and worked Sherlock’s hair into a rich lather. Then he took Sherlock’s hand and urged him to stand. “We need to rinse you and get you out of here before the water turns cold.”

“Mmmm…feels good I here.”

“It will feel even better when the soap is out of your hair.”

Sherlock stood, stepping to the back of the tub as John released the drain, stood and turned on the shower, setting the temperature. This gave Sherlock another moment to admire the naked form of his soon to be lover. He admired John’s strong and capable frame, still fit and muscular.

When the water was to John’s liking he urged Sherlock to enter the spray, but Sherlock resisted, shaking his head in the negative.

“What, love?” john asked.

“Join me?”

“Are you sure?”

“More than I have ever been about anything in my life. More sure than when I leaped from Bart’s I would survive. More sure than when I…”  
John stopped him, not wanting to go there ever again. He claimed Sherlock’s lips again instead, took Sherlock’s hand and allowed the taller man to help him into the tub. They stepped together under the spray, Sherlock rinsing his curls and John allowing the warm water to sluice rivulets down his body. Sherlock grasped the loofah and soap and began to wash John, learning the planes of his body, chest, arms, stomach, and finally the undeniable erection that stood out from John’s body and matched his own red and pulsing and ready.

Sherlock stepped forward, placing his arms around John, meeting him chest to chest and drawing them both under the spray. They kissed again, and their erections touched. Sherlock gasped a shaky inhale, breathing John’s air, and they held one another tightly for a moment.

“John?”

“Yes, love?”

“I’m ready. Will you make love to me?”


End file.
